benjAmin beRg
The Case of the Sudden Tower
Were I a fan of systematic categorization (a ghastly habit, in my opinion; each situation
should be judged by its idiosyncrasies, I say, lest its most noteworthy aspect and, accordingly, its
most obvious solution be overlooked), I suppose I should have branded it a typical day thus far. I
was seated in the dwarfish cube that served as my office at the time; although I had already
proven myself an expert in my field, and hence worthy of an office, my field had yet to prove itself
one that much needed an expert. My superiors had supposed this would be a compromise:
bequeathing upon me this office which was an office in name only. Were I to guess the true
purpose of the room simply from its construction and stature, were I somehow to erase the place
from the context my mind had enshrouded it in and inspect it with virgin eyes, I would think it a
third-world prison cell, so backward as to lack a bed or water-closet, but equipped with a desk
and an antique Clarknova typewriter so that whichever death row war criminal were condemned
to inhabit this claustrophobic box would have the tools necessary to compose his memoirs before
stepping up to the gallows.
As I reclined in my chair I propped my feet on the top of the desk, which measured more
by way of width than did the room itself. Thanks to this miscalculation, the furniture layout (as
though there were more than the desk and the chair) left several smidgens to be desired. The
desk, instead of being placed in any strategic or aesthetically-pleasing position, had been forced to
fit in the one spot where it would, where it was lodged between the walls so firmly that a natural
disaster would be prerequisite for its relocation. The four feet of the desk seemingly floated
several inches above the floor, as though mocking the force of gravity which struggled to pull it
the rest of the way downward. Perhaps those pranksters in Resource Assignment had chosen the
entire arrangement specifically for me, thinking that a paranormalist such as myself would be
amused by a desk which appeared to levitate. Perhaps I would, if my desktop had been
horizontal. But no, the surface slanted to the left, a list which caused many a pencil or piece of
paperwork to drift lazily to the floor in hopes of escaping the fate of being filed.
I was perusing the latest issue of Xenologia, a professional periodical the Dep't was
considerate enough to subscribe to exclusively for my own use (although to imply thoughtfulness
was their motive is misleading to say the least; they subscribed merely to keep me busy, since I
was typically assigned at most one case a month at that time, and had been known to wait an
entire financial quarter without so much as a hint of real work). The article I was currently
enthralled by was a case study of a Shropshire lad who had one day spontaneously (and quite
inadvertently) begun growing additional digits. The case was no more than a curiosity at first,
when the man would only produce a pinky or so a week, but as the condition worsened the rate of
growth increased exponentially. Before long his body was a rippling mass of excess fingers and
toes, sprouted from all across his limbs, from his back, from his nether regions, from spots on his
torso and head where even acne would be too polite to take root. I was eager to learn the
conclusion to his tale (had he been cured? Had his disorder gone into remission? Had he been
euthanized before his condition could become contagious? Had his curious fingers burst,
releasing millions of flagellate spores, the pioneers of a bold new race of infectia?) when I was
suddenly interrupted by the telephone.
The shock of the unexpected clamor sent me reeling back. For a moment or few I was
totally boggled as to the source of the sound; at that point in my career I hadn't received a call for
eight solid weeks and had acclimated myself to the absence of sound (well, perhaps it wasn't the
absence of sound exactly; the building's air conditioning had a regular rattle that rather resembled
someone disrespectfully tossing a set of fine china into the vents, and of course there were the
occasional rufflings of papers, the steady poundings of the typewriter when I composed my
reports, the meager squeakings of the chair when I shifted my weight, but those were all my
sounds. They were aural phenomena that I caused; they were inherently attached to my actions,
and therefore ignorable. They certainly didn't erupt spontaneously, as the telephone had). The
momentum from my jerk reflex carried me onward, my chair threatening to capsize and throw me
overboard, but I managed to prevent that disaster by catching my foot underneath the desk and
stopping my descent. Once I'd familiarized myself again with the location of each of my bearings,
I grabbed the receiver and delivered the expected "Hello?"
"Dietrich?" The voice was gruff and cold, and held an air of urgency, of extreme haste.
From the tone I recognized it immediately as belonging to Distributor Algernon Pfeiken,
immediate underling of Chief Distributor Hardester. Pfeiken was Distributor for the Department
of Miscellania, where I had been arbitrarily assigned upon my hiring for lack of a traditional job
description. Whenever I spoke with Pfeiken I was impressed by how extraordinarily busy he
seemed, but likely that was his intent, and he was hardly occupied at all. I couldn't be sure
whether this deception was general, a false front of frenetic pace to hide his boredom, or specific
to me; paranormalists in general were not well respected yet, and he might have considered me
and my job a mere waste of resources, unworthy of even the effort necessary to brief me on my
assignments.
I verified my identity with a yes and he continued, rapidly. "Case for you. Top of
Monniker Hill. Neighbors complained of loud rattling noises last night. Now reporting sudden
appearance of mysterious gothic tower on hilltop. No witnesses or leads as to tower's origin.
Investigate. Assigned escort: Praxton." Promptly and without warning, as soon as he’d
completed pronouncing the final consonant he disconnected; I was left clinging to the disharmonic
droning known as the dial tone (a set of tones, I'm convinced, which were chosen because no sane
individual could bear hearing them together for more than the briefest of moments; their goal was
to annoy the user to hurry up and dial). Once, when I was a mere tot, I had thought that protocol
would require a Distributor to pause after delegating a task; it seemed beneficial to my young
mind to ensure that all orders had been acknowledged and understood. My dealings with Pfeiken
had taught me otherwise. I couldn't be sure whether the discrepancy between my infant
imaginings and actual happenings was due to the lack of a rule or Pfeiken's utter disregard of one,
but in all my (admittedly limited) telephone correspondence with Pfeiken he had hung up abruptly
immediately after completing his statement (his terse, fragment-riddled statement, seemingly
scripted solely for maximum brevity) every time. Such etiquette rituals as saying goodbye were
apparently absolutely trivial to him; he never deigned to say hello; not an "Understood?" nor a
"Do you copy?" ever graced his lips. Needless to say, I wasn't particularly fond of him either.
I marked my place in the Xenologia and, donning my hat and coat, left for Low-Officer
Bunburry Praxton's desk. I was more than moderately perturbed that I'd have to suffer Praxton's
presence once again, that cretinous chimp, but being well aware as I was that there was no chance
for exchange, that my personal preference for a partner mattered not to those who chose, I opted
not to be caught complaining. It was standard procedure that any inspector trotting off to
investigate a case had to be accompanied by at least one lower-ranking backup officer; they were
required to be armed and around so that, should events become violent, we valuable inspectors
could avoid joining into the fray (although I individually was neither popular nor especially busy,
there were quite few inspectors about and the loss of but one would jostle the hierarchy as it was
established). They were the grunts to our uncaring core command, if you will; they were the
brawn, the bulging-bicepped bodies match our allegedly-better brains. While we concentrated on
cognitive matters, they focused on fighting, and should a low officer die by gunfire, the
accompanying inspector was expected to carry the corpse of his companion as a shield and bullet-
magnet while making his escape. Still, despite our supposed superiority over them (or perhaps
due directly to that same supposed superiority, as though the low officers were considered as ants
indistinguishable from each other), the opinions of we inspectors did not and could not affect our
partner assignments.
So I was stuck with Praxton, who fancied himself an amateur paranormalist and
sycophantically revered me as some sort of deity. This was exasperating, as he was grossly naïve
and uninformed in the practice of my profession but still presumed to proffer his own inexpert and
typically inane hypotheses whenever they occurred to him. I couldn't blame the boy for his
interest (most of the other low officers still regarded me as deluded if not outright mad; they
regarded paranormalism as a joke and I as the punchline), nor could I blame Pfeiken for sticking
him with me so often. Nevertheless, his adoration and idle chatter did little but distract me from
my duties.
I was barely out the door of my office before I ran into Praxton in the hallway.
Apparently Pfeiken had called him first, and he had already been en-route to my office before my
phone ever rang. "Morning, Inspector Dietrich!" he exclaimed, eager for the supernatural
escapade he no doubt expected. "Are you ready to explore the unexplained?" This was, in regard
to me anyway, his catch-phrase; he asked it every time we were assigned together. To him, what
I did was fantastic, romantic, a life of bold adventure. I must admit that in my later life it was,
after the Strange Happenings had begun and I had an ever-replenishing supply of oddness to
investigate instead of the sporadic minor phenomena I was dealing with then. But the flaw in
Praxton's incomplete view (and the reason why he could never be a true paranormalist) was that
he had absolutely no sense of the surreal. Everything to him was as a storybook; he pictured the
world in terms of færies and elves and dragons. He was as apt to check under a bridge for trolls
as to inspect the pile of corpses nearby. I attempted repeatedly to set him straight; I reiterated
incessantly that paranormalism is nothing like the tales of Hans Christian Anderson, but my
appeals to his sense had little effect.
I mumbled something in the affirmative and we began our walk to his squad-assigned
automobile. At once he commenced spewing out awkward trivia and hearsay accounts of
encounters with the "inexplicable" (I place the word in quotatia because Praxton's yarns all
involve the already-identified; mythological fauna whose existence has been explained repeatedly,
in fairy tales at least, but are thought to be either extinct or fictitious). I pretended to pay
attention to his perennial blathering, but mostly I watched the walls as we walked and waited for
pauses in his soliloquy, at which point I'd inset an "Mm-hmm," or an "Indeed?" Finally we
reached the garage, and then his vehicle, although it offered me no solace from the tedious
jabbering. I would have to maintain the facade of faked listening until we reached Monniker Hill.
I mean not to imply that none of Praxton's tales hold any merit; it's quite conceivable that
behind the romantic imagery rumor has clothed them in, some of these tales might possess a core
of truth. They could well be accounts of honest odd phenomena which witnesses misjudged as
the stereotypical: sprite, vampyr, witch. However, City protocol is quite precise regarding
delegation of work. City Investigators may only investigate those cases which are assigned to
them by their respective Distributor. Were I to be caught snooping at something I'd neither been
assigned to directly nor asked by a fellow investigator to help with, I would not only lose my job,
but would face a sentence in the Police Prison, a gaol for city employees who have blatantly
broken policy. So Praxton's stories at best (when they conceivably might have been grounded in
fact, which was not especially often) could only tease me into curiosity concerning cases I couldn't
possibly ever crack, and clutter my mind with worthless worries which would hamper my
performance.
Nevertheless, having nothing of interest outside my window, I found myself suddenly
listening to his banter. "...So Matilda, still wearing nought but her negligee, ran from the house as
fast as her little feet would propel her. She knew that if she let the minotaur catch her, it would
kidnap her and carry her back to its wicked maze, where it would commit terrible offenses against
her womanhood." I chuckled silently to myself at the perversion of Hellenic mythologia. "She
darted out the front door and into the busy street outside, where she was snatched up by bobbies
for public indecency. She told them of the beast what had been after her, and they searched her
house directly, but found not so much as a hair nor hoof-print. Now what would you make of
that?"
I shocked him by responding for once. "Psychotic episode, no more no less. Poor...
Matilda, you said was her name?" He nodded agreement. "Yes, poor Matilda, her humors all
unbalanced, suffered an attack of the Spleen whilst home alone one evening, possibly enliquored
or laudanumed. Or perhaps it was a nightmare, and in the haziness of half-sleep she bolted from
her home in her unmentionables, unsure what was dreamt and what was not."
"But, Inspector Dietrich," Praxton protested, "of all people, I would expect you to
understand! You're a paranormalist..."
I cut him off. "Simply because I investigate the paranormal, that does not make me
gullible. It is absolutely vital for a professional paranormalist to retain a certain a certain level of
skepticism. The harsh reality of this field at this time is that many of the reported stories are
hoaxes, such as that `babe of the dæmon' whose goat head was affixed with mucilage, completely
invented to dupe the papers and the people for fame, fortune, or both. Many more are simply
malinformed misunderstandings. If I fell for everything I heard, I'd never have been hired."
He was speechless for a moment, undone by my reasonings, and simply drove silently. We
pulled out from behind Beecham Hill and suddenly Monniker Hill came into view. Sure enough,
an edifice I'd never seen before (and I happen by Monniker Hill quite regularly) had asserted its
presence there; silhouetted by the morning sun, the tower was purest black, but framed by a fiery
pink corona, gracing it with the eclipse-esque duality of being both ominous and welcoming at
once. What I could make of its architecture from its shadow was quite unusual; it seemed to be a
hodge-podge throw-together of every style imaginable, with no consideration given to tact or
aesthetics at all. I saw gargoyles atop Gothic Greek columns; flying buttresses supported modern
fire escapes. Beneath this looming structure I could discern three or four human figures: locals, I
presumed.
We were close enough to see the people at the bottom of the hill when Praxton finally
(and quite understandably) broke his self-imposed silence. "It's him!" he exclaimed, obviously
looking where I was not.
"Who?" I asked, curious as to who could extract such a reaction from him.
"Dr Boffo!" Upon hearing the name I perked up, and followed his pointing finger to the
figure in question. It hardly seemed possible that such an eminent investigator as Dr Harvey
Uptenstalk (known affectionately by his supporters as Dr Boffo) could be close by; he'd always
been less man than legend in my eye, even though he'd only been working professionally for six
years. If not for the immense amount of evidence (photographs of him were abound; he was quite
the celebrity, even then) supporting the stories; I'd doubt that such a man could exist. But exist he
did, and in this very place at this very time; Praxton's finger didn't lie. Dr Harvey Uptenstalk, the
world's greatest paranormalist, was standing at the foot of Monniker Hill with two local residents,
who, armed with a camera, were preserving this monumental moment with exquisite precision.
He was a private investigator: the first paranormalist to support himself with a private
practice. In fact, he supported himself capitally, soaring amongst the jet-set, flying all across the
globe at the request of the world's gentry, and routinely solving some of the most fantastic cases
the world had ever witnessed. He'd already amassed quite a fortune, although gold mattered little
to the dutiful Doctor Boffo. One could tell from the briefest of exchanges that this was a man
enamored with his work. He bounded about on his grand picaresque escapades for the adventure
of it, for the sheer love of the strange and mysterious.
I can scarcely shape into syllables the onslaught of thoughts and emotions that assaulted
me upon first glimpsing through the automobile's window this icon who would later become my
close friend and mentor, though I can report every thought Praxton had, as he rattled them all off
out loud as soon as they occurred to him. "Mother of Blood," he said, "Dr Boffo is here! That's
really Dr U! What can I say? Cecily will never believe this! I must get his autograph, but how?
The only paper I have is this report pad, and the City gives demerits for each slip not used
properly. Oh, what shall I do?" &c.
He'd come up with a solution by the time we were parked, and he rushed from the vehicle,
unbuttoning his sleeve and begging, "Dr Boffo? Will you please sign my forearm?"
Dr Uptenstalk cheerily turned, producing a pen from his pocket, and said, "It appears the
City Investigators have arrived. Who should I make this to?"
Now coming into range, I answered for poor enthusiastic Praxton. "That is Low Officer
Bunburry Praxton, and his wife's name is Cecily. I am Inspector Spencer Dietrich."
"Dietrich, eh?" Dr Uptenstalk asked as he autographed Praxton's limb (incidentally,
Praxton immediately rushed to the tattoo parlor immediately after work, to have the marks made
permanent). "I believe I might have read an article of yours in the J of O," (the Journal of the
Odd, for those readers not familiar with this minor research periodical) "it was about
cercopedarkening, if I recall: the curious habit of city streetlamps to shut off inexplicably when
pedestrians approach and light up again only once the poor walkers are well past. Quite good, I
thought."
At first I could give no response to his praise. For such a demigod (as he was in my mind)
to be familiar with my work was unfathomable, and I couldn't be positive that he'd said anything
at all; there was an off chance, I imagined, that I was so eager for the good doctor's respect that I
might have hallucinated receiving it solely to prevent myself from going daft. Soon enough,
though (and hopefully the pause was not so long as to seem awkward) eventually I coerced my
mouth into forming a "Thank you, I'm quite the follower of your own work, Dr Uptenstalk."
"How reciprocal," Dr Uptenstalk remarked. "Well, for introductions, Inspector Dietrich,
these are ladies Emily and Natalie Comb, who live in the neighborhood. They requested I should
come examine this queer clashing tower which rose from naught last night. I imagine you're here
for the same cause?" I nodded assent. "Then shall we go together?"
The good doctor led us awestruck civil servants (the ladies stayed behind) energetically up
the hill, toward the gaudy structure. He was still young and vibrant, not yet calmed by the
eccentricities of his later life (to those critics who would speak of the change of Dr Uptenstalk's
behavior in his elder years as "The Great Decline of Dr Boffo" or "Dr Uptenstalk's Mental
Collapse", I need only allude to the facts: that Dr Uptenstalk performed better in his work the
older he got. Indeed, his record already was remarkable when I first met him, but by the end of
his career he'd transcended beyond our shallow understanding of existence, and could seemingly
sling off miracles as though they were afterthoughts, mere distractions from his primary task. To
explain his increase in both idiosyncrasy and efficiency as he aged, I must concede that no man
can spend so many years gazing into Madness' maw and escape unbitten. I myself am far more
bizarre (to use the term loosely) than I was then thanks to things I've seen while working, and Dr
Uptenstalk in his day faced many a case exponentially stranger than any of mine. And with as
furiously as Dr Boffo fought the forces of Madness, I'm sure Madness fought back at least as
aggressively. But the good doctor didn't descend into dementia as a lesser man doubtlessly
would; nay, he assimilated the insanity to sharpen his intuition. He didn't lose his mind entirely, as
some say; he only lost what parts he had no need for.) and he walked so briskly that Praxton and I
hustled to keep pace. As we scurried I was filled with the neurotic phobia that I would stumble
upon some stone on the path and tumble to the lawn, and that by the time I was vertical again the
others would have already been to the tower and left.
As though to silence that fear, Dr Uptenstalk suddenly stopped around five-hundred feet
from the foot of the tower. Within seconds Praxton and I stood beside him. "What is it?" I
asked.
"This tower is not at all what it seems," he answered enigmatically.
"How so?" asked Praxton.
"Well," he began, gesturing to the structure which now no longer blocked the sun,
allowing its front face to be seen, "all the decorum on the front of the tower: the phallic pillars,
the exquisite windows, the homunculi perched to pounce from the pillartops... it has no true
depth. I would chance to say that those decorations are not real at all, and are merely painted
on."
The boldness of his declaration startled me. "But what about the all the pillars and other
assorted architectural ornaments on the side of the tower?" I protested.
"And how did it get here?" added Praxton.
"Most likely they are wooden cut-outs, or the equivalent, shaped and positioned to make a
pretty silhouette. The building, I bet, was prefabricated elsewhere and merely delivered here
overnight. I'm afraid, however, that to ascertain how such a feat was accomplished we must get
closer to, if not enter, the edifice above us." Apparently that was our cue to follow, as he
bounded off in a brisk trot once more. There was a glimmer in his eye (well, I couldn't see it since
he was several paces ahead, but knowing the man I know it was there) that meant his mind was
tuned to one aim only: the case at hand.
We ran; like bullets we soared toward our target. And as we went I wondered how the
dear doctor diagnosed this place as painted so early, and from so far away. My eyes were quite in
their prime (at least so the optometrist said) but still I saw naught that implied fraud, and he, in his
spectacles, had spotted it from much farther back. Had the statement come from any other man,
it would have sounded silly at best, and I would have dismissed it at once upon hearing (painted,
indeed!), but even though I'd only first met Dr Harvey Uptenstalk, it never occurred to me to
doubt him. His past successes (including such wonders as his work on the Shifting Donkey
Epidemic, the Curse of the Intangible Eyelids, and the startling Case of the Sentient Intestine)
spoke for him in my head, saying, "This man is genius. He is bound only for glory. Free yourself
of your mundane beliefs and follow him! He is the way, and the only way is through him."
Soon enough I saw as he had that the columns, windows, and lurid statuettes, while
precisely detailed down to the thoraces of their minuscule arthropod imposters (ants, scarabs, and
flies of all sizes) who looked so real even their own insect counterparts mistook them as genuine,
were no more solid than a shadow. They were indeed only painted on, as Dr Uptenstalk had
announced, and even the brilliantly skilled hand of whatever Michelangelo rendered them could
not have stretched them into three dimensions. They were trapped in the two. They were purely
planar objects; not objectively real at all. I pondered their purpose: were they created only to
deceive, to impress superstitious townspeople the way smoking a pipe might impress isolated
aboriginals, or was perhaps the building entire some esoteric new genre of art, a bold blend of
painting and sculpture? Or was the point of the paint so bizarre that I would never guess it, if
ever even understand it?
We were almost upon the tower by that point, so Dr Boffo slowed his pace from mad dash
to relaxed stroll. Praxton and I sighed in unison as we eagerly followed suit. I was entirely
unaccustomed to physical rigors, having done little for the past score of months but sit at my
floating desk and read magazines, composing the occasional report or article, and feared I would
suffer a spell any second and awake on the ground with Dr Uptenstalk scowling down on me for
succumbing to sloth, for holding him back from his destiny, from solving the case. In fact I
believe it might have been this very neurosis about meeting the good doctor's disapproval that
held me so firmly awake those few minutes outside, before I'd caught my breath and before the
mysteries of the interior aroused me back into an alert professional mindset.
The tower's exterior was exactly as predicted by Dr Uptenstalk, which surprised me not.
Attached to its sides were odd wooden props cut neatly and painted (with the same precious
detail given the rest) to add illusory depth. The only part of the 150-200 foot tower (it was hard
to guess with the sunlight bright in my eyes) that was authentic was the understated door, which
Dr Uptenstalk walked immediately to and knocked upon. At once the door opened, to reveal
only darkness inside. Where was the hand that had turned the knob?
"Well, shall we enter?" asked the good doctor, knowing how we would have to answer.
Any sense of City protocol was completely absent from my mind, and when later writing my
report I found it necessary to edit the truth occasionally to insert procedures I'd absentmindedly
forgot because, even though the City had assigned this case to me and it was my duty to
investigate it, I knew that I would not be one who solved the "Case of the Sudden Tower", as I'd
decided to call it. The arrival of the private Dr Uptenstalk had demoted me to his assistant at best
(not that it bothered me; to be honest I was honored to be in his enlightening presence) and
stopping to go through each motion of protocol would only hold the bold doctor down. Praxton
obviously felt similarly, since he was in the door before I: immediately after Dr Boffo. I was the
last in (not due to any hesitance, mind you; I was merely still tired from running so far).
Little light leaked through the open door, and my unadjusted eyes could barely make out
the form of a desk directly before us, with perhaps a person sitting behind. Then, as unattendedly
as it had opened, it closed all by itself, and immediately upon it making contact with the doorjamb,
the inside of the tower was suddenly quite well lit (from where I know not). My retinae burned
for a moment and red or green polygons danced amid the strange scenery I witnessed. Whatever
I'd been expecting, whatever grandiose visions I might have had of what the inside would be were
far outweighed by the oddity of the actual interior. For one, the building was not divided into
separate floors. There were interior walls, all lined with bookshelves, all filled to the brim, and
those walls went up to the absolute top of the tower, some 200 feet above. The entire building
was in essence one story, with 200' ceilings. Curiously I saw no ladder anywhere, and wondered
how anyone could access the volumes on the upper shelves. Aside from dangling from the roof, I
could see no possible way to get at those secluded books, and thought that perhaps their contents
might be confidential, hence their segregation.
The room we were in was a sort of lobby, with a long corridor leading off ahead of us.
Blocking the corridor was the aforementioned desk, where a spunky young lass was seated,
dressed in a curiously styled pinstriped business suit. Her desk was bare but for a tag which read
"Receptionist." Dr Uptenstalk began to speak to her at once.
"We request to see the manager or whomever is in charge," he said.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.
"No," Praxton confessed.
"Well, I'm sorry, but Mr Pidgenkelrod is quite busy and can't see any unscheduled visitors
at this time. I can make an appointment for you for next week if you like."
"We're from the City," I told her, "and we must speak to Mr Pidgenkelrod immediately
regarding zoning laws."
"Well, I'm sorry, but Mr Pidgenkelrod is quite busy and can't see any unscheduled visitors
at this time. I can make an appointment for you for next week if you like."
"Then perhaps you could answer some questions for me," I continued. "What does this
business do? How did you transport this building to this location?"
The receptionist looked blankly at me and said, "Do you really think I'd be working at the
front desk if I could answer questions like that? You'll have to ask Mr Pidgenkelrod."
"I should say you should," I told her, becoming quite vexed, "I would think knowing what
line of business you are in would be prerequisite to..."
Dr Uptenstalk interrupted me at that point, asking, "What was your mother's maiden
name?"
"Do you really think I'd be working at the front desk if I could answer questions like that?
You'll have to ask Mr Pidgenkelrod."
"Just as I suspected," he muttered. Then, to the receptionist again, he stated, "We would
like to speak to Mr Pidgenkelrod."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"Yes we do," he fibbed.
"Mr Pidgenkelrod's office is at the end of the hall. Have a nice day."
As we started down the hall, I asked, "What was that?"
"The reason she was deaf to our questioning," the good doctor explained, "was because
she was not real. She was a recording."
"You mean like a phonograph?" asked Praxton.
"In essence, yes," answered Dr Uptenstalk, "but a psychic recording. Somewhere that
woman does exist, or did, but not here. The woman in that room was only a imprint, projected
into the lobby only to direct visitors away or to the manager's office. Any extraneous data
irrelevant to that task was deleted to simplify maintenance."
Once again awed by his instant insight, I almost exploded. "How do you know these
things?" I begged. "How do you get at the answers before I've even determined what the puzzles
are?"
"Observation and intuition. It's anything but a rational process. I examine and then there
is connection. Suddenly I know." Then he stopped walking and turned to face me, startling me
(for it was the last gesture I would have predicted from one seemingly in such a hurry) before
continuing. "Paranormalism is the profession I was destined for; it my purpose and my entire
personality. I tried to write for a while, with a B.A. in language, but the critics all said my work
made no sense, and aside from that I felt confined by paper and binding. I sampled the stricter
sciences, earning my masters, but was bored by formulae. This is my art, dear Dietrich, and after
a point I can no more explain my skills than a sculptor could explain how he finds form in bare
rock. Now, shall we go through this door?"
I had been so held by his soliloquy that I had failed to even acknowledge that we had
reached the end of the corridor. Silently I cursed my distractibility as we passed into the inner
sanctum of Pidgenkelrod. The office was thrice as large as the lobby, again with shelves of books
spanning into the sky, but this room suffered for its spaciousness: the only furniture was a desk
and accompanying chair. A blonde young man in a nigh-foppish caricature of dresswear rose
from the chair and greeted us.
"Good day," he grinned. "I am Alistair Pidgenkelrod, manager here at the Tower. How
may I be of service?"
I stepped forward and shook the man's hand first. "Yes, I'm Inspector Dietrich from the
City, and this is Dr Uptenstalk and Low Officer Praxton. We've come to discuss certain zoning
laws..."
"Ah," he said, his smile collapsing, "you've come to speak of places. How quaint."
"What is your line of business, Mr Pidgenkelrod?" I asked.
"Obviously we are a library, dedicated to the advancement of learning. I'm sure you can
appreciate that, Inspector. We contain over 5 million volumes."
"And what is your business at Monniker Hill?"
"It seemed like as good a place as any."
"How did you transport this tower here overnight? You are violation of City Ordinances
concerning construction."
"Well," he said gruffly, "I'm certainly not going to respond to that tone of voice. I'll have
none of your farcical ordinances, and if you think you can make me move the Tower you're
bloody mistaken. I happen to like it here, not that I've been outside."
Praxton grabbed the man by his shirt and asked, "Want me to rough him up, Inspector?" I
was about to consent when Dr Uptenstalk, who had been pulling volumes from the shelves and
inspecting them during my interrogations, called me over to him. I came as bid and he handed me
a book he'd been holding. Its title, written in ink on masking tape applied to the volume's side,
was The Spasmicality of Fluid. The binding itself bore no writing, only geometric symbols. I
opened the to find pages upon pages of nought but triangles and circles, in no discernible pattern
or order. No text anywhere inside.
"It's not his decision," Dr Boffo said. "He manages nothing. He is no more than a pawn,
a hapless victim."
"Of what?" I asked.
"The tower itself. We must depart immediately before we suffer the same fate." In an
instant Pidgenkelrod was on the floor, and Praxton, Dr Uptenstalk and I were scurrying out
toward the exit. All the while Pidgenkelrod begged us to stay, "Please! I'm so lonely! It made
me the woman but she's so hollow! Don't leave me alone!" We hustled past the receptionist who
blankly ignored us, out the front door, and on down Monniker Hill. I dared not look back
(visions of Lot coming to mind) even when the enormous rattling sounds began. Instead I ran on,
as I suspect the others did, empowered by fear to perform feline feats of speed and dexterity, and
when the cacophonous din had ended the tower was nowhere to be seen, gone as inexplicably as
it had arrived.
We ceased our descent at the bottom, and catching my breath I began to ask, "How...?"
Dr Uptenstalk anticipated my question and interrupted to answer. "The books on the
uppermost shelves were out of the reach of even the most disproportionately tall. Why such a
foolish layout? I examined a few of the volumes, and they were not written in any human
language. They were in the Tower's language, which unfortunately I had no time to study. I did
consider keeping one of the books as we left, as an academic souvenir, but feared the
consequences knowing that the Tower and its books were most certainly linked in some way.
Who knows, the book could have barred me from leaving, could have attacked me, could have
dragged me on to wherever the Tower travelled next. But oh, how valuable that book would
have been!
"And as for knowing when the Tower would leave, to be honest, I actually didn't. I
thought it would more likely depart at dusk, but I felt it necessary to be cautious and escape
immediately. Perhaps the Tower might have stayed later had we not run out so hastily; its sudden
flight may have been a failed attempt to take us with it. In any event, in all our frolicking my
stomach seems to have burned away breakfast. Who's game for lunch?"
During the ride home after the meal, Praxton and I agreed that it had been the best meal of
our lives. That brief exchange was all either of us spoke during the drive; we were still too
awestruck to mutter more.
(
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